


Gloriously Empty

by phoenixgal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, So much hurt/comfort, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixgal/pseuds/phoenixgal
Summary: On the fourth day after the battle, as he is slowly clearing sap spewing yew saplings from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Neville notices the man wrangling a little pod of drakes toward the trees, stroking each one and encouraging it to flap its tiny wings. The man has ginger orange hair and wears dragonhide pants over muscled legs. A sense of desire that he hasn't felt in months stirs. He’s probably a Weasley, Neville thinks. Probably one of Ron's brothers. But that makes him think of Fred, which isn’t a pleasant thought.Basically... Charlie and Neville hook up post-battle.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Charlie Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Gloriously Empty

In the days after the battle, Neville keeps feeling like he has something to do, only to realize that it’s mostly over. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, second guessing everything. At one point, he sits in the Great Hall with a plate of food, hungry, and it takes him several long minutes to force himself to eat it instead of trying to save it for later. Nothing feels right.

Harry tries to talk to him several times, but each time, he gets called away. He seems wildly grateful to Neville for having killed the snake, and there’s a lot of speculation flying around – that the snake was actually Voldemort, that the snake held a charm that preserved Voldemort's life, that the snake was some sort of omen in a prophesy and had to be killed first. Neville isn’t sure he'll ever get the answer. He thinks of the tanks and the broken prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. That is his lot – to be a part of the action, but not even understand his own role. 

He could go home, back to his grandmother's, but she’s not even there. She’s in hiding. Everyone is still at Hogwarts, getting medical care, waiting for the all clear to return to their homes, helping with the rebuilding efforts. The Carrows cultivated venomous tenacula and elf strangling vine all around Hagrid's Hut and the east side of the castle. They'd also been growing a greenhouse of dangerous ingredients that needed to be dealt with. Neville can’t seem to stop moving and doing so, he just keeps going, doing what is needed. Professor Sprout seems glad to have his help.

The funerals begin on the third day after the battle. Of course, it wouldn't be… no. Neville won’t think about that.

Kids from the D.A. keep coming up to him. There are three 5th year students who can’t find their parents. There are two Ravenclaws whose parents are in the hospital. There are kids with injuries, kids who need things and are afraid to ask the real adults. There are kids who… But, no. Neville won’t think about that.

On the fourth day after the battle, as he is slowly clearing sap spewing yew saplings from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he notices the man wrangling a little pod of drakes toward the trees, stroking each one and encouraging it to flap its tiny wings.

Neville pauses and watches. The man has ginger orange hair and wears dragonhide pants over muscled legs. His shirt is torn and his face looks so intent as he works, giving each little drake bits of meat on the ground and slowly stepping back from them.

He’s probably a Weasley, Neville thinks. Probably one of Ron's brothers. But that makes him think of Fred, which isn’t a pleasant thought.

The man looks up briefly and their eyes meet. Even from yards back, Neville can see deep brown eyes and a smattering of freckles.

After a moment, the man smiles and Neville can’t help it. He’s still stuck in the past, when someone could see that you were looking and bad things, bad things could happen. He pulls his gaze away fast, back to the saplings. The ones he pulled are all turning a sort of sick chartreuse, their sap spilling desperately out to poison someone, anyone.

You don’t have to sleep in your dorm room. Everyone is just sort of everywhere – camped out in old dorm rooms, sleeping in the infirmary, curled up on the grass under the stars right on the grounds. Neville wishes he could go to the Room of Requirement, but every time he has tried to find it, he turns the corner and instead of the room, he sees a burned out corridor. Instead, he sleeps in his old bed, which seems too small in a room that seems too big without Harry, Ron, Seamus or Dean.

Before he can sleep, Neville tries again to list the things he has to do. Things he has to do, so many people to hide away and… there is nothing. It’s just an emptiness. He could pull more plants and help Professor Sprout some more. He'll do that. People have started to leave, but he doesn’t have to yet.

The man from that afternoon appears in his thoughts, looking bright and alive, his shaggy ginger hair framing his face, his arm outstretched and so gently stroking, encouraging… Merlin, he had looked so intense, so caring, so…

Some things have been turned off for awhile. The noise of needs like hunger and humor and sex all walled off for a bit in favor of survival and resistance. This coming back on is like a potion catalyst. Neville feels it almost like a tonic, his cock going hard, his arousal coming on like a charm hit him right in the center.

For a moment, it’s a shock. Could he? Could anyone feel this way again? And then, it’s like riding a broom, it all comes back, hands down his loose pants, stroking, stroking. It's not wrong, is it? But it doesn't matter. The ginger man looking at him with the same gentleness that he'd looked at the creatures with. The ginger man's hands on him, encouraging, entreating, his voice in Neville's ear, his eyes, those eyes, those freckles, those muscled legs up against…

It's all too fast. Over and done and what about… What about… No, this is it now, Neville thinks. They've done it. That sword came for him and he did what Harry had told him and it doesn't matter if it was destiny or just him or… It's over. What is it that he has to do? Is everyone safe?

* * *

Charlie nods when Percy suggests that they try to make themselves useful. He supposes it would be a new sensation for Percy, after all.

“Don't go far,” his mum orders.

She has not let them out of her sight since the battle. It's been four days. Four days of interminable waiting. He'd had a giant gash in his side and there was a wait for care. There was a wait for his dad to see if the Burrow was inhabitable. There was a wait for funerals. They've all been doing things, helping care for others, helping keep George together, helping each other, so it doesn't feel empty, but it does feel like time is moving interminably slowly. Nothing seems to be happening. It's driving him mad.

“Don't worry, Mum,” he says.

“See if you can find Ron,” she says. “He's...” She trails off. Ron has been by Harry's side nonstop and Harry has been barraged with people. The new minister has been there often, and the head of the aurors, and several members of the Wizengamot. Hogwarts has become a sort of makeshift Ministry. The real Ministry is still not entirely safe. They're waiting on that too. His father says he and Bill dissolved the curses placed around the Burrow, but… they have to wait.

They go toward where Professor Flitwick has every task in triage. Percy begins helps assign tasks, but Charlie just… If he has to spend one more day indoors, he thinks he might explode.

So instead of politely waiting for a task, he wanders out and sees Hagrid outside his hut, dealing with dozens of wounded thestrals. 

“Can I help, Hagrid?” he asks.

“Charlie Weasley,” Hagrid says. “Yeh, I trust ye with 'em. Come see to their wounds.”

Charlie likes this sort of work. Creatures are so much better than people. They're so much easier. The thestrals let him smooth salve over them and wave his wand to place gentle binding charms on their cuts to help their skin knit faster. He's done this sort of thing for dragons before. He misses them, but he can't go yet. Waiting.

There are a lot of creatures to deal with. Some are wounded. Some have been held cruelly by some of the Dark Arts professors and some of the Slytherin students in their employ. Others were tortured. Others are dangerous and need to be found homes.

He sees the boy watching him as he deals with a little colony of drakes that were left neglected in a spelled terrarium near the greenhouse. He's coaxing them to freedom in the Forbidden Forest when he notices a pair of blue eyes on him from down at the edge of the tree line.

The boy is probably not actually a boy, he concludes. He looks too old and worn to be a Hogwarts student. Maybe an older sibling, a young man, maybe even a teacher. Maybe Fred and George's year. He wonders if the man knew his brother, but tucks the thought away.

The man pulls weeds wearing the most enormous gloves and a pair of mismatched boots. His robes are open and torn. His face sports a bruise and some cuts. He was in the battle. Charlie saw him there. He did something, but he can't quite recall what. He's handsome. The cuts and the bruise give what would otherwise be soft features a bit of an edge. He's tall and broad chested, with thick arms that look like he's done his share of labor. Merlin, that's Charlie's type, he thinks. Right there. He smiles.

The young man looks away, caught out, embarrassed, color rising on his pale cheeks. He's back to the sticky looking pile of weeds he was apparently working on before.

When he gets back to the castle, his mother is distraught because she can't get back in the Burrow to get photos for the funeral. She's in borderline hysterics.

“Mum, leave it,” Ginny says repeatedly. It's like she's talking to an inferi. Their mum is fixated. It will be another two days before the curses fade. Waiting.

Finally, George emerges from where he's been curled up in a corner of the classroom they've overtaken. “Shut it, Mum,” he says. “If they need to see his ugly mug, they can just look at mine.”

His mum bursts into tears, as does Ginny. Percy looks weepy. Their father walks in with Bill and Fleur, who have already gone home to Shell Cottage several times now. “What?” his dad asks, looking bewildered. “What's happened?”

Charlie walks right back out. For a moment, Bill's hand is on his arm, trying to stop him, but Charlie shrugs it off, perhaps a bit too hard. “Leave off,” he says, more forcefully than he means.

He digs through his things and finds his tiny one person tent and sets it up at the edge of the forest, where everything is the sound of creatures all night instead of people.

* * *

He sees the young man the next day as well. He's in and out of the greenhouses, his thick fingers dug into the dirt. He pauses often as students come up to him, apparently looking for advice. The man stops each time, talks to them, holds them as they cry, but then goes right back about the plants. He strokes them as gently as Charlie would a baby dragon just out of the egg.

His blond hair needs a wash. His muggle jeans are streaked. He’s hardly skinny, but he looks a bit underfed, as if he should be bigger. Charlie can't help but think he's a bit beautiful.

On the sixth day, his family goes home at last, to the wrecked and newly un-cursed Burrow, but Charlie begs off and stays. “Hagrid needs my help.” Hagrid has said nothing of the kind.

The man is still there too. Most people are leaving, but groups of children are still around with nowhere to go. They're orphans. There haven't been this many orphans in the wizarding world in many years. Charlie thinks of Tonks's baby and gets briefly knit up inside, but he cuts it off.

His mum pitches a fit, but George emerges from his stupor to give him a sort of envious look before they leave through the Floo that's been set up in the big fireplace in the Great Hall.

He deals with doxy infestations and nurses a bicorn colt whose horns were removed before they could even grow to maturity. The bicorn keeps bleating in confusion.

The man is there and keeps showing up, carrying things from the greenhouse, dealing with devil's snare on the side of the castle, rounding up a rowdy boy whose mother has finally come. Their eyes lock as the man carts the small child back to the castle. The students look to him. He must be an assistant teacher or someone trusted. Charlie feels guilty for noticing him, for noticing his arms and his chest and his eyes.

On the seventh day after the battle, Charlie is returning mermaid scales to the merpeople in the lake when he sees the young man again. He's crouched down consoling a tiny girl who is hidden by the tall rushes that rise up around the edge of the lake.

“But… but… Neville,” the girl blubbers. “But… my mum can't… what if she can't… Madam Pomfrey says...”

The young man conjures a handkerchief from somewhere, his magic seamless. “My mum is still in St. Mungo's,” he says. “Everyone will tell you it's okay, but it's not. If you're not ready, you don't have to go. You can stay at the castle with Daphne and Sol and the others. But if you can...”

Charlie feels like he's eavesdropping. He walks away carefully, quietly, but the man’s eyes rise and meet his above the edge of the rushes. His look is difficult to decipher. 

An hour later, they cross paths again as the boy walks back from the castle, back toward the forest. He can't be coming to Charlie. His tent is hidden out of sight at the edge of the trees, but he almost seems to be walking toward it. When Charlie comes out, the man looks mildly startled, then mildly embarrassed.

“Hey,” Charlie says.

* * *

Neville doesn't really know what he was going to do. Professor Sprout has suggested that it's time for him to go back to his grandmother's and he knows he'll have to… He has to leave soon. But it's like every time he thinks of going, it means… And he stays.

Yet after he's taken Julia to the castle and gotten her settled back with her friends, he doesn't feel like he can stay or stop. Professor McGonagall has clearly noticed him and he quickly removes himself, just walking away, not thinking of where.

When he gets to the edge of the forest, he abruptly sees Charlie Weasley standing there.

He's knows the handsome, ginger man’s name now. He's seen Ron with Harry the day before, but not for long enough to have a proper answer to any of the questions that keep swimming up in his mind. He asked Ron if his brother still around the castle. “Charlie is,” Ron said. “He's making Mum batty because he won't go home for some reason.”

“Neither will you, Ron,” Hermione said, with an air of exasperation.

“Well, I'm busy, aren't I? Don't know what Charlie is about.”

So Neville knows the name of the man with the rugged look and the easy smile who coos at creatures and seems to always be around the edges of the forest.

He hasn't been following Charlie or anything, but they just… He's beautiful to watch and Neville can't seem to stop himself. When he sees him, he watches. There's no longer anyone to punish him for looking. Everything is back on again. Spring is happening, Voldemort is dead. Life is back and Neville has just been gazing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels guilty, but he can't touch that, can't think about it. So instead he's just been… looking. From afar. Probably too often.

“Oh,” he says, when their eyes meet. This time, they aren't halfway across a field or passing each other in a busy group, or noticing each other engrossed in some task. They are both just standing there, face to face. The evening has set in, dusk is there and the stars are almost out.

“Hey,” Charlie says. “We keep...” He makes a gesture to indicate how they keep crossing paths. “I'm Charlie Weasley.”

“Yeah,” Neville says. “Er… Neville. Longbottom.” His own name feels odd on his tongue. He feels almost itchy with irritation.

“Didn't mean to eavesdrop before,” Charlie says.

“You… it was all right,” Neville says.

“She going to be okay? The little girl?”

Will Julia be okay? Her father's dead. Her mother was tortured into a coma and may never emerge. But she's not… It's not… “Yeah, I suppose,” Neville says.

Charlie snorts, as if to indicate how absurd it is that Julia might be okay. It makes Neville want to lean into Charlie's space more. Someone should say it, how absurd it is that any of them should be all right.

Charlie's gaze rests comfortably on him, evaluating. Neville feels exposed and he suddenly realizes how pathetic he must look. Charlie is older and worldly and beautiful. He's just… Neville. Merlin, what did he think he was doing? He can't even look at this man.

Yet when he looks away, ready to flee, Charlie's hand reaches out to his cheek, turning his face back to face him.

The touch, the gentle, strong touch with the entreating look is so very close to Neville's fantasy that a shocked little sound escapes from him and then he's even more embarrassed. He thinks if there was a way to fold in on himself like a crumpled up bit of parchment that he would. Crumple and fade away and never return. 

“Why are you looking away now?” Charlie asks.

“I'm… I'm not...” Neville stammers out a lie.

“You can look at me,” Charlie says quietly. His voice is so resonant, Neville thinks. It's like it's tuned right to Neville's ears. Or maybe right to Neville's body, which wants to be pulled in like a magnet.

“Looking was… it could get you killed… before.” 

“Oh, is that how it was?” Charlie asks, his hand pulling back.

“Proper courtship,” Neville can't help the bitterness as he remembers the student assembly at the start of the year. “Wizards who don't 'seed' new magical blood are an abomination.” 

Charlie hums his disdain for this idea and it comes to Neville then that he was looking back. There is no question. They are both this way, both looking at each other. His breath quickens and his eyes widen a bit. Now that they are face to face, Neville can see Charlie is slightly shorter. He’s thin but muscled, his freckles spread everywhere across his skin, like he'd spent vastly more time in the sun than his brothers. They sprinkle down his neck, up his arms. They’re on his chest, Neville thinks. Would they dot across his body, would they be hidden under a down of chest hair, would they go right up to his nipples, across his muscles?

Charlie takes a step back. “Don't have anywhere to go?” he asks.

“No,” Neville says. “Or, yes. I could go to my grandmother's. I'm… just trying to figure it out. I could go…” Earlier than morning Professor Sprout had told him about the discussion in the Ministry for Magical Education to hold NEWTS during the Hogwarts winter break. She offered for him to stay and study, to be sure he could get them so he could take a job she had in mind, one at the Throom Magical Arboretum. Neville felt like a cornered hippogriff during this speech. Luckily she patted him lightly on the shoulder and told him to think about it. “I can leave, I just… haven't.”

“Ah,” Charlie says.

The spell where Charlie was boring right into him, his hand on him, connections being made seems to have broken and Neville doesn’t know what to do to get it back. He wants to throw himself right at this man, but he also wants to turn away and flee. 

For a moment they both stand there awkwardly. “Let me show you something,” Charlie says.

Neville nods, feeling eager and hoping he doesn’t look too keen.

Charlie walks back the way he'd come, around the edge of the forest, where the grass grows tall and the shade from the trees makes everything a bit wilder. Charlie pokes his head into a break in the trees. The light is still bright enough that Neville isn’t afraid to go in the Forbidden Forest, but he does glance around.

“It isn't far,” Charlie says, without looking back.

He tromps over the undergrowth at the forest edge as if it’s nothing, then over a mossy stump and between two enormous trunks and everything opens up again.

“Oh!” Neville exclaims. “They're ringing bluebells.”

The tiny hallow in the forest is carpeted in the blue flowers. Charlie leans over and brushes against one of the flowers and it sounds, its tiny chime setting off the others, which chime all along in a wave of small tones across the whole of the field.

“I've never seen so many at once,” Neville says.

“Me either,” Charlie says. “Noticed you work with plants. I was releasing some blue hares and I stumbled on it.” He leans against the massive tree that marked the opening to the little field.

“Merlin, they're…” Neville leans over and examined one carefully. “Brilliant.” He stands up and turns back to Charlie. “You… er...”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, his voice calm and confident. Neville knows he’s staring and he ought to just say something. Is this flirting? No one had ever gotten him a field of magical plants before.

“You just going to look at me or you want something more?” Charlie asks.

“More,” Neville whispers, his heart thundering in his chest.

“My tent's set up just down the way.”

It takes almost no time to get to Charlie's tent, just outside the edge of the forest, hidden with a mild disillusionment charm. From the outside, it looks like it would barely fit one person laying down, but Charlie crawls inside and Neville follows, finding a small apartment with a bed and a tiny kitchen all in one room.

For a moment, he stands there, looking at the rustic décor, but then Charlie crowds into his space, putting an arm around his back and tugging him forward a bit. Is this all it takes, Neville wonders?

Apparently. Charlie’s hands reach around Neville’s back, running up to his shoulders then down, down, all the way to cup at his arse through his old muggle style trousers. Neville feels goosebumps tingle up his spine, making his shiver. In fact, he might be shaking outright. Trembling? He feels wildly out of control. 

Charlie bends his face to Neville’s neck, kissing there, sucking a little. Neville shivers more, the feeling moving from the point on his neck where Charlie’s lips touched him all the way down to the small of his back. It pushes him forward, it’s so extreme. He needs more.

He’s probably supposed to do something, but he can barely even think. His hands grip at Charlie’s shirt, balling the fabric, releasing it, doing it again and probably scratching him through it. He leans his head to Charlie’s exposed neck and tries to emulate the way Charlie kissed him, with his tongue and maybe even his teeth. Is this how hickeys are made? Has he just been too rough? Charlie seems to like it though, so Neville sucks harder, more teeth. 

Oh, the smell of him. Masculine, sweaty, warm. The smell somehow goes right to Neville’s cock.

Charlie’s leg comes between his and Neville moans, pushing into his hip.

Charlie’s breath hangs heavy in his ear. “You’re about to go off already, yeah? Let me take care of you for a first round? You’ll go again, won’t you?”

Neville can hardly understand these words, but he nods and babbles out a yes.

Charlie tugs him toward the bed, a long four poster with a rumpled quilt. The posts ascend to the top of the tent walls. Being pulled along is almost enough to let Neville get his head out of the buzzing wildness that has overtaken him. But when Charlie pushes him lightly against the bed post, he begins to tremble again, that overwhelming sense of his body out of control returning.

Charlie steps back and grins, shedding his shirt and doing some sort of wandless spell so that his boots unlace and he can step out of them. Neville wonders if he is supposed to remove clothes and he nearly gets his head to tell his feet to kick his shoes off as he pulls the buttons apart on his shirt, but then Charlie drops down to his knees and presses his face up against Neville’s crotch and Neville gasps, afraid he’s going to come just from the image and the feel of Charlie’s mouth through his trouser fabric.

He bucks into it, his trembles stronger, his body overtaking every thought. It feels like his head is gone and he is just his body. That is Charlie’s hand on his zipper. Charlie’s breath on his pants. Is he smelling Neville? Does he like it? Neville moans incredulously. He’s impossibly aroused now.

Charlie’s hand pushing his trousers and his pants down a bit. Pulling his erection out, letting it spring free into the air and then and then…

Just the site of this man that Neville has been watching all week letting Neville’s erection bob up against his face, a joy on his closed eyes, and Neville nearly comes right then. It’s only the knowledge of how embarrassed he’ll be if he does that lets him grit his teeth and look up and away, trying to stave of that tug of desire right in his balls.

As he tries to think of unsexy things – though none are especially coming to mind – he feels the warm wetness of Charlie’s mouth on him, first just sort of sucking along the bottom of his shaft and then all around him, engulfing him, sucking him down.

He can’t help himself. His eyes fly back and he sees that dark ginger hair, those hands with thick calloused fingers wrapping around his thighs, those intense eyes gazing up at him and he’s gone.

“I’m… I can’t… I have to…” he manages to choke out.

And Charlie hums. He hums and the vibrations of his hum wrap around Neville’s cock where it’s enveloped in Charlie’s mouth and there’s no holding back, no matter how embarrassing it may be that he will have come in less than a minute, it doesn’t matter now because he can’t stop himself from thrusting forward a bit and he feels the tug that means he has to, he has to let go.

It’s almost too much, right on the edge of painful, and Neville pushes forward with so much force and grips Charlie’s slightly shaggy ginger hair that he worries he might hurt Charlie, but… he can’t stop. He can’t stop at all because he is there, right there. And, he groans as he comes right down Charlie’s throat, his fingers gripping, his head hitting the back of the post of the bed as Charlie swallows it all down. And that, Merlin. It’s the sexiest thing Neville has ever seen in his life.

He’s half slumped as he lets go of that mess of gingery hair he’s holding. Charlie’s mouth is still around him. He’s still… he knows he’s still a bit hard, but the urgency is all gone and he’s all oversensitive. He’ll… it’ll… He breathes out and tries to right himself, but Charlie, hands still around his hips, doesn’t pull off, but gives him another, much gentler suck.

It’s painful. He’s past the point of sensitization, but he’s still hard, erection still not faded and the pain is both wonderful and terrible. Charlie hums again, more vibrations, more sensations, just more. 

He does pull off now and Neville doesn’t know if he’s relieved or annoyed. Charlie’s hands push along his hips, pulling his pants and trousers all the way down to his boots, which somehow are pulled off.

“Mmm… you’re drunk on it, aren’t you?” Charlie asks as he pushes Neville to the bed.

His shirt is still on, so Neville finishes with his buttons and finally gives up and tugs it off, sitting up halfway to do so.

Charlie has removed the rest of his clothes. He really does have freckles all down his body, buried beneath a thin layer of light hair on his chest, tapering off at his middle. Neville’s eyes drift down to the little trail of hair the begins at his belly button and to the thatch of light ginger curls surrounding his erect cock, which is wonderfully long and hard, jutting straight out, head poking out with a bead of moisture about to drip off.

Neville shivers a bit, wanting to get his hands on it, but not sure what he should do next. He doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s expected. He’s only ever done any of this with one person and that… He can’t… He is thankfully too turned on by just looking at Charlie that it’s the easiest distraction in the world.

Charlie raises his eyebrows. “Want something?”

“Merlin, yes,” Neville says.

Charlie nods. “All yours. Especially if you’ll use that lovely thick cock to fuck me.”

Neville’s eyes widen. “I… You mean… I mean… oh yes…”

The word yes is all it takes. Charlie turns so Neville can see his arse, where the freckles fade to pale pink skin stretched over well defined muscles. Neville groans.

“How do you want to do this?” Charlie asks, head tilted back. His eyes close softly. “Bend me over here? Get me on all fours?”

Part of Neville feels like he’s walked into a pensieve version of his own dirtiest fantasies. “On the bed,” he says, his voice rougher than he’d expected. His hand reaches out to Charlie’s arse, feeling the smooth skin. He squeezes and that squeeze turns into a tight grip, fingers digging in a little, causing Charlie’s crack to part, his dusky furl briefly visible. 

“Yeah,” Charlie says, briefly bending slightly, taking a breath before climbing up onto the bed. 

Charlie reaches into a half open drawer by the bed, dropping a vial on the sheets. Then he positions himself on his knees, hands against the headboard, knees apart.

He’s really… he talked with… but he can’t think right now beyond just want. He just came, but he’s all desire again. All pent up wanting and need. And his erection never really went down and he feels like, yes, he might be able to go again already, a scant five minutes on.

The vial uncorks and the slickness potion drips onto Neville’s fingers. It’s cool and viscous and sticks to his skin a bit. He’s only ever done this to himself, but any hesitation is clouded and closed out by desire. Neville crouches on his knees and puts one hand to Charlie’s cheek, gripping again, pulling with more purpose, watching intently as that furl of puckered skin is revealed again. And then he reaches out with the other hand, fingers dripping, to explore a bit. The skin is so soft and it yields almost immediately. He can literally see Charlie’s hole contract as he traces the edges with his finger. Godric’s gonads, he’s going to stick his cock in there and it’s going to squeeze like that around him.

“Add some more,” Charlie says, leaning his head down to rest where he’s got his arms braced. “You don’t have to go slow.” He breathes out a ragged breath. “Take me hard, yeah?”

Neville wants to go slow, to watch every twitch of muscle, take in every pleasured groan. But he also wants to get it right. And he wants it too.

So he pours the vial out along Charlie’s crack, watching the lubricating potion run down over his hole to his balls. And then he strokes a finger in, then adds another in short order. It’s how he takes it himself when he’s alone in the shower, using a bit of gel to ease the way. Charlie makes happy groaning sounds as Neville gives his fingers a few thrusts and circles them. He’s not sure if it’s right, but it’s incredible to watch, incredible to feel. He’s probably gripping too much, digging the fingers of his other hand in too hard, bruising, his fingernails scratching, but Charlie just moves his arse back against Neville’s hands, as if he loves it and wants more.

“Come on,” Charlie says. “Come on. I… Oh fuck, yes, there.”

Neville gasps as he feels Charlie’s hole contract and then relax and open. He rubs the spot he’s found a bit more, tentative, hopeful he’s doing it right, and is rewarded when Charlie gasps too, his head dropping down. “Fuck. Just… fuck. Can you please… Please…”

Neville fumbles as he withdraws. He reaches for the vial and drops it twice with his slippery hands before finally managing to pour a bit more out onto his cock. It’s probably good that it’s shocking cold because otherwise the slippery feel as he takes himself in hand might have ratcheted him up too much. As it is, he’s now grateful he came just minutes ago. 

He holds his cock and pulls back Charlie’s arse one more time. For a moment, he’s not sure he can even do it. He slips along Charlie’s crack and that’s good enough that he moans. He fumbles and lines up again, thrusting forward and…

It’s a hard push and oh, Merlin, so tight. It’s distracting how tight. Is it supposed to be this tight? Surely he’s hurting Charlie.

But Charlie doesn’t seem to mind. He thrusts his arse backwards even as the heat and tightness urge Neville forward, out of his head where he wants to think and question and second guess because he just needs. He needs it. He needs it so much that his hips rock forward and his cock plunges in and in and in until he’s bottomed out and his balls are tight against Charlie’s arse. He leans over and grabs Charlie’s shoulder and bends his head over the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, come on,” Charlie says, demanding. “Come on, Neville. So hard that… that I… just…” He’s half incoherent, but Neville does need his words anyway because his body knows exactly what he wants to do. 

He pulls back and rocks in again. And then again, And again. And again. He establishes a rhythm, then loses it. Then picks it up again. In out in out in in in.

Neville grits his teeth against coming too soon. He bends over Charlie’s neck again, nuzzles against it as he thrusts. Kisses it. Then, without even thinking about it, he bites, at first gently, but when Charlie moans out his assent, he bites again, harder and gets a beautiful groan from Charlie and feels his arse tighten around him. Godric, could he be tighter?

Neville thrusts harder, rears up a bit and grips Charlie’s arse, pulls his cheek back and fucks in hard as he watches himself. He’s inside someone else. Someone who is moaning the word harder, harder, harder as he watches his cock disappear into someone’s body, someone with a beautiful pale arse, a beautiful back dotted with freckles, and beautiful ginger hair hanging shaggy around his neck that Neville has marked with his teeth and his lips. And still he’s saying harder and Neville wants that too. He wants to make it harder, wants to give him everything he wants, wants to take everything there is, wants to forget.

Because this is bliss. There’s nothing. Nothing but sensation. The pounding pleasure of this. The sheer emptiness. Because it’s just this. Neville pushes in, thrusts, bottoms out, pulls back, pushes in, thrusts, bottoms out… His balls draw up but he’s not, he’s not, not yet because this. This. This. 

His head is empty, gloriously empty. 

And then Charlie cries out. This isn’t a moan, isn’t like before. He’s screaming with it, back arching and, oh, oh, oh.

Neville can’t stop himself from following after Charlie’s orgasm, his own overtaking him and seeming to last forever, like he can feel each moment of it drawn out as his body empties out to match his mind.

* * *

When he falls asleep, it’s all looseness and joy. Charlie didn’t even realize how little he had slept until he’s sleeping with a man half sprawled on him, come cleaned off the sheets with nothing but a scouring charm, his arse feeling sore, his muscles loose, his body scratched and a bit used.

So it’s a bit of a shock to wake up more rested than he’s felt since before the battle, maybe since before he left Romania, rested enough to feel all the grief he’s been holding at bay.

Fuck. Is that what was under everything? Of course it was. Of course, of course.

And this man. Merlin, that had been a good fuck, good enough, apparently to make him feel safe enough to feel the way he feels now. But now, as he looks at him, Charlie feels a wash of guilt for having used him, and an even bigger wash of guilt, feeling that he’s taken advantage.

Neville stirs as Charlie shifts, trying to decide what to do.

“Hey,” Neville says, eyes starting to open.

Charlie tries to give him a smile, but whatever Neville sees on his face must not be a smile. His blue eyes blink and then he pulls himself up halfway so he’s leaning sideways, looking right down at Charlie.

“Who are you thinking about?” Neville asks, his voice husky with sleep and maybe something else too.

Fred. He’s thinking of his brother. But that’s not what comes out. “First girl I ever kissed,” he says instead. Because he saw her, all her colorful hair her funny faces, her wicked smile all gone. Her body all rigid next to her husband, clearly an avada kedavra. Must have been quick. But fuck you, Tonks. Shouldn’t she have been with her kid and not there with the rest of them?

“Yeah?” Neville says.

Charlie knows his eyes are clouding up a bit. But he’s not so far gone that he can’t see the same in Neville’s face, echoing back.

“Yeah. You?”

“First boy I ever kissed.” Neville bites his lip, looks so broken that Charlie leans up to match him, facing him. He draws him into a kiss.

They didn’t do this part in the night. It was all hands and slick and getting off hard and fast. He’s not a bad kisser. Charlie feels soft inside, like his emotions got as much of a workout as his backside. Neville’s mouth is open and his tongue is warm. He tastes of musty sleep, but it’s not bad. There’s no desperation in the kiss, nothing like the night before. It’s mouths caressing each other.

“Tell me about him,” Charlie says as he pulls back.

Neville smiles, his eyes blink. “He was… younger. Just… so gay right from the moment he showed up at Hogwarts. He couldn’t hide it, you know? I always… it’s not on purpose. Just something that happens. It’s hard to show yourself. But Colin, he never flinched. A true Gryffindor in that way, I guess. We weren’t in love or anything. Just the only queer boys in the house, at least, I as far as I know. We had a crush on the same bloke. Only Colin was always so obvious about it. So we sort of… fell in together. Late nights wanking and kissing and… Well. Experimenting. Trying things out. It wasn’t like… love exactly. Not like that. But we were…”

Neville sniffes and lays back down on the pillow so that Charlie now mirrors his position from earlier, leaning on his side, looking down at him.

“He was muggleborn. He wasn’t supposed to be here. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t have…” Neville stops, tears overwhelming him. He feels like the little kids he’s been comforting all week, out of control, lost in a labyrinth that had no exit. “But… he… he came back. I don’t even… He had one of the DA coins… you… do you know about those? I know your brothers…” Neville breathes, snuffles, wipes the tears, seeming to realize that he’s just mentioned Charlie’s own loss, maybe without even meaning to.

This is how much loss there is. They’re just stumbling into it.

“You were in Gryffindor? Fred… Fred’s year?” Charlie’s voice is quiet.

Neville blushes. “Ron’s,” he says.

Charlie groans and falls back to his pillow. “Merlin’s balls, you’re a kid. I… fucking hell.”

“Not technically,” Neville says.

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut. For a moment, everything swims around in his head. He wants to go back outside and tend to a dragon egg or nurture some thestral wounds or just… something. Creatures are always easier.

“I didn’t meant to mislead you,” Neville says, quietly, his face still tear-filled. He turns his face to the pillow, but Charlie leans back over.

“You didn’t.”

He pulls him into another kiss, just a quiet press of lips and reassurance.

“Fuck,” Neville says.

“Your Colin, he died in the battle?”

Neville nods. “I barely even saw him. We never… It was the battle and he was there and… We never even had a chance to talk. I couldn’t ask how life on the run was or compare… torture, I guess. And now I’ll never… He’ll never…” Neville breaks off, seemingly at all the things his first lover would never do.

“Fucking Dark fucking lord,” Charlie says, pressing his eyes closed. He feels broken inside now and he’s thinking of all the things Fred will never do either.

“Fred once pulled the meanest prank on me,” Neville says after a moment of silence. Charlie opens his eyes and looks at him, shocked somehow, wanting to hear. “He didn’t even mean to really. I was… a complete idiot. Always on the outs with everyone it seemed. Third year, I was feeling extra sorry for myself. I was forever forgetting all the passwords for the Fat Lady and everyone in the dorm hated me. Somehow Fred chose the worst moment to test out some sort of shoe charm. He cast it on me on my way out of the Great Hall. Every step I took made it sound like I’d farted unbelievably loudly.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Charlie says, torn between laughter and frustration and tears.

“I know! As I left, the Slytherins really had a field day with me. Eventually it wore off, but not all the way. It kept just happening at the most random times. I’d stand up at the end of a class, take one step and pfft, there it would go again.”

“Ugh. Please tell me he took it off.”

“Merlin, no,” Neville says. “Of course he didn’t. I thought about asking George, but… I might have been too busy wallowing in self-pity to even consider it. Eventually though, it happened right in front of him in the common room as he was digging into some sweets from the kitchens. He laughed and called me a name… like Neville Smellville or something. I can’t remember. I’m sure it was more clever than that because he was always clever. Anyway, I was finally so fed up that I put a sprouting hex on his food. I’d just learned it in herbology and I’ve always had a bit of a way with plants. I’m afraid it went a bit out of control. For the next week, I think everything he put in his mouth started growing vines.”

“He must have loved that.”

“But… he did!” Neville says. “He thought it was brilliant. I don’t think he ever called me a name again. He tried to get me to show him how to do it. I’m not even sure what he had in mind to use it for, but I couldn’t make it so strong and pernicious ever again. He didn’t mind though. After that… well, he and George paid me to steal ingredients for some of their Skiving Snackboxes from the greenhouses because Professor Sprout always let me do whatever I wanted there.”

“He turned you to a life of crime.”

“Probably good preparation for later,” Neville says. His face twists again, the heavy look returning. “He was… he was good. Looked before he leapt and all, but… kind. And when you had his respect, he, he was…”

Charlie nods. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” He sniffs. “Fuck.”

“It’s not… I’ve been telling all these kids that it’s all okay. I’ve been telling them all week and… Fuck, is it? Is it okay?”

“I don’t bloody know,” Charlie says.

“Me neither. Suppose that makes me a liar to all those kids.”

Charlie’s hand reaches out, tracing lines on Neville’s torso. He runs his fingers over the scar that cuts across Neville’s side. He has a lot of those himself. Neville’s scars are so new that they’re still angry red in places, the result of poor healing instead of creature venom or dragon fire. The result of neglect. Charlie leans forward letting the sheets push down a bit and kisses him just to the side of his nipple, where the scar trails down his side.

“Some sort of slashing curse,” Neville says, in answer to a question Charlie didn’t ask. “Got used as target practice for some 4th year students.”

Charlie feels a flare of anger, but it’s quelled to gentleness. He pushes up and their mouths meet again, more kisses that move slow, caressing lips, fingers in Neville’s soft blond hair. Charlie knows it’s probably wrong but he doesn’t really want to stop. After taking so much the night before, he wants this, wants to give. In for a sickle, in for a galleon.

Neville responds by putting his hands on Charlie’s bare back, running them down to his hips and palming his arse. 

It’s nothing like the night before. Now Charlie stays half on top of him, ripping the sheet out from where it tries to separate their bodies. He lets them slide together, lets himself feel Neville’s broad chest and his slightly soft belly, lets himself get slowly erect from where his own legs wrap around Neville’s hip. His erection slowly grows and slots itself against Neville’s hip.

And meanwhile, they kiss. Part of Charlie wants to cry and he knows now that Neville feels the same. They’re both vaults filled with tears half spilled. So instead, they’re doing this, rested and conscious and not trying to hold back the emotions, but just reworking them.

Fingers around Neville’s cock. It’s a lovely cock, not so much long as thick. He’d enjoyed it on his tongue last night and fucking his arse. Now he’s wrapped around it, pumping a bit, moving the foreskin to let the head peak out. He pulls away enough, stops kissing, then drags his hand up to lick a wet stripe down it and return.

Neville likes it. He can tell because he groans and squeezes his eyes tight for a moment before leaning forward and pushing his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, then sucking his lip hard, hard enough that Charlie feels the sting of it and it’s glorious.

But Neville stops, pants, and they’re back to kissing, though now Neville’s hands tug Charlie up and over him. Neville’s hand reaches between them, and it’s awkward, limbs slightly tangled and Charlie loses his grip and Neville groans again, but in a less pleased way.

But then cocks together, hands joined. That glorious slide. He can’t really feel anything but hands and pressure and the smoothness of Neville’s erection against his own. The rhythm of it. And breathing together, tongues tasting, lips pressing. Everything moving.

Neville comes across their hands, his body taut and his release spilling over Charlie’s cock, his face twisting, back arching so that now Charlie is kissing his chin as he pumps against all that wet, slick come and then releases himself.

They don’t exactly stop kissing, mouths still half against each other. But they’re not moving either. Charlie is sprawled over him, softening cocks still adjacent, legs still together, Neville’s other hand still gripping his arse.

Charlie blinks and moves his lips again, sealing the kiss. He presses his face to Neville’s cheek. There’s a dampness of tears there and for a moment Charlie can’t remember crying before he realizes it’s Neville’s own tears.

There aren’t any words for a long time after that. Charlie feels his own grief bearing down, but it feels like a burden shared, even if they’re mourning over different people, different things, different losses. He doesn’t cry and Neville isn’t sobbing either, just shedding tears, like they’re leaking slowly out, grief releasing. They’re just there, sharing their grief.

Finally, finally he feels the sun over the tent and knows he has to get up.

Before he can move though, Neville stirs below him. “I have to go to a funeral,” he whispers.

“Me too,” Charlie says.

“I… I feel…”

“Me too,” Charlie says.

They use cleansing charms and find their clothes again, dressing in silence.

“We’re not even going to the same fucking funeral,” Neville complains and Charlie understands exactly what he means. He doesn’t want to go to a funeral together; he wants there to be fewer funerals.

As they exit the tent, Charlie waves his wand and lets the whole thing pack away. They stand there for a moment, slightly awkward in the misty Hogwarts morning air.

“I probably need to go to my parents’ for a bit, but then…” Charlie can’t seem to say anything more.

“Thank you,” Neville says. “Thank you,” he repeats, reaching out to touch Charlie’s hand briefly before turning and walking back up toward the castle.

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut and pictures the task ahead of him. Part of him wants to flee into the Forbidden Forest or off to Brasil or into the wilds of the Congo. But instead, he turns and packs up the tent, compacting it into its pack and zipping the whole thing up. He checks his black robes and straightens them, feeling stiff in his formal clothes. 

When he’s finished, he shrinks and pockets the tent and gives one last look at Hogwarts before he apparates away. He doesn’t think he’ll be back. 

* * *

Professor McGonagall helped him arrange a portkey for himself and several of the 5th and 6th year Gryffindors. Neville leads them away from the paper cup, past cars and around a shiny building covered in glass to an old stone church that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Hogwarts grounds, but looks like the city around it is about to swallow it up.

Inside, Dennis comes out of nowhere to grab him and cling on, sobbing. “We both saw the message on the coins, but… I had to stay with Mum and Dad because the Death Eaters had been… We had seen them…”

And then, Neville is sobbing too. He’d been so scared, but that morning, when he’d woken up, he’d known it would be all right. It wasn’t like before, when he couldn’t seem to find the grief. It was right there, wait to burst loose. He had been quietly crying with Charlie but now it was there full on.

He imagines Colin looking down at this scene. He’d love that Neville had a first proper shag the night before the funeral. He’d have a good laugh and take the piss over it. And he’d want to photograph the whole affair. Is anyone taking pictures? Real ones, not muggle ones?

“You did the right thing,” Neville says to Dennis, his voice coming out choked and messy.

“Shut it,” Dennis says. “I know. I know, I just…” And then he’s off into blubbering tears again and Neville is with him.

The funeral is long and a bit mysterious to Neville, who doesn’t know much about muggle churches. But Colin’s parents talk, and Dennis, and the Gryffindors there all cry too.

Once it’s over, he knows he’ll get everyone who needs to go back to the castle, back, and then he’ll go back to his gran’s. He’s ready.


End file.
